


A Few Appropriate Remarks

by amb_393



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Friendship/Love, Historical, No Jessica Logan, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-06-30 20:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15758712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amb_393/pseuds/amb_393
Summary: Lucy, Wyatt, Rufus, and Flynn chase Rittenhouse to Gettysburg in 1863. Flynn tries to play nicely with the Time Team, and Lucy and Wyatt explore their feelings for each other.





	A Few Appropriate Remarks

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this just because the little town of Gettysburg, PA has a special place in my heart, and I would have loved to see the Time Team visit. Loosely set sometime after 2x03 except Jessica didn't come back.

Gettysburg, Pa  
November 18, 1863

The Lifeboat shivered and jerked to a stop, jostling her passengers roughly in a landing that never got any easier. Rufus flicked switches and pressed buttons as he powered down the machine, and his teammates unbuckled themselves from their seats. Flynn slid out first, stumbling a bit as he found his footing on the rough ground, and Wyatt came next, holding out a hand to help Lucy navigate the wide outer rings of the Lifeboat. Rufus braced his hands on each side of the open hatch, gazing morosely at the rolling farmland and the mission that awaited them before sighing deeply. “I am really sick of the Civil War.”

“At least we’re above the Mason Dixon line this time,” Flynn quipped, crossing his arms over his chest and quirking an eyebrow at the pilot. “It could be worse.”

“Jiya will kill me if I don’t come back in one piece,” Rufus grumbled, jumping lightly out of the Lifeboat with a nimbleness born of too much practice. Despite his understandably sour attitude about 1863, the engineer’s face noticeably brightened at the thought of his equally brilliant engineer girlfriend. Just as quickly, a shadow clouded over his expression, and he pulled up the zipper of his hoodie to his throat. “Damn, Pennsylvania is cold in November. Let’s hurry up and get this over with.” 

“I thought you went to MIT,” Flynn retorted, precisely enunciating each letter of the university’s acronym. “Boston is colder,” he clarified unnecessarily. They had reluctantly started bringing Flynn along on missions mostly because of his love affair with firearms, but his knowledge of Rittenhouse and quick thinking had helped them out of a tight spot more than once. But no matter whether they were in the past fighting evil or the present crammed together in a bunker like a bad sociology experiment, Flynn never passed up an opportunity to needle the other time travelers over slights real or imagined.

Rufus shot the other man a withering look. “And I grew up in Chicago. But it’s been a long time since then, and I much prefer my California winters now.”

“No, he’s right,” Lucy interjected, and the two men looked at her in surprise, distracting them from their bickering. Each secretly hoped that he was the 'he' Lucy was referring to. “That we should get moving, I mean. The sun will be setting soon, and we have to find clothes before someone sees us.”

“I don’t think we’re about to meet any new friends around here,” Rufus mused, looking around. “It looks pretty abandoned.” His eyes landed on the small farmhouse nearby. Judging by the bullet holes that studded the side of the house and the front door hanging off its hinges, the combat from the Battle of Gettysburg in July had passed directly through these fields. Despite the chill in the air, there wasn’t any smoke curling from the chimney.

Wyatt and Flynn entered the house first, modern guns drawn to ensure that it was as empty as it appeared, before they waved in Lucy and Rufus. Fortunately, the terrified family that had fled from their home during the summer had left behind enough clothing to passably outfit a former college professor and a time machine pilot in appropriate 1860s civilian attire, but the 21st century soldiers were forced to strip the decaying bodies of Union infantrymen whose lives had expired behind the kitchen door. The cellar and anything of possible value left in the house had been ransacked by soldiers desperately looting the house for provisions. Union and Confederate forces alike were in dire need of shoes, uniforms, and food after two years of hard fighting.

Once properly attired, Lucy reached out to rub her fingers across the arm of Wyatt’s wool uniform, where the blue chevrons, crusted with the blood of their former owner, marked him as an infantry sergeant. A wave of sadness swept over her for the man who lost his life on this homestead turned battlefield as well as a sense of determination that her soldier wouldn’t meet the same fate. The breeze lifted Lucy’s long skirt and made the loose strands of hair around her face flutter. She looked so natural, so comfortable in her period clothing that she seemed to have stepped out of a painting or a movie poster. Lucy felt Wyatt’s eyes examining her and looked up to meet his gaze.

“What are you thinking about?” he murmured, at a volume meant just for the two of them.

“How _not hideous_ you look in that uniform,” she smirked, but her face quickly fell back into seriousness. She had never been good at hiding her emotions, and Wyatt could read every expression that flitted across her face.

“What is it, Luce?”

“Just—be careful, okay? Things are . . good right now. I want them to stay that way,” Lucy said quietly, her forehead creased with worry. She bit her lip nervously, both at the veiled declaration of what lay between them and the knowledge that change had been the most constant thing in her life since Agent Kondo knocked on her mother’s front door all those months ago.

A small smile tugged involuntarily at the corners of Wyatt’s mouth even though he knew that Lucy had reason to worry—she had already lost so much since learning that time travel was real, but he didn’t intend to be next on the list. Things _were_ good between them, better than ever. Since the jump to Hollywoodland in 1941, Logan and Preston had been embracing their new role as a couple, enjoying blissful mornings of breakfast in bed (Wyatt cooked pancakes and bacon) and facing the anxieties of their first tiff (Lucy forgot to wash the dishes) while cohabitating in an off-the-grid underground bunker. Despite Wyatt’s suggestion to keep their new status quiet while they navigated their fledgling relationship together, the news spread through the bunker like it had been posted on Facebook.

One day, Flynn had heard Wyatt blaming Rufus for blabbing the news to Jiya and starting the admittedly truthful rumor. He propped his feet on the coffee table with an amused smile. “It wasn’t Rufus’s fault, Wyatt,” he drawled, ignoring the hostile look that Wyatt shot in his direction. “You two aren’t exactly _subtle_ , with the smiling and the giggling and the sneaking off together.”

In 1863, Wyatt squeezed Lucy’s hand reassuringly. “Me too, Professor. Now tell us what we’re about to walk into here.”

“The president should be in town soon, he’s on the six o’clock train,” Lucy explained as their little party set off across the rolling farmland. As usual, Rufus had landed the Lifeboat more than a mile outside of their destination to avoid unnecessary and dangerous notice from the locals. “It’s often said that he was writing his speech on the train from D.C., but Lincoln was one of the only presidents who was adamant about writing all of his own speeches, and he probably wasn’t scribbling it on an envelope.” Lucy frowned, likely annoyed by the frivolity of that particular myth.

“He came with Secretary of State William Seward and several other advisers, and they’ll be staying in town with a lawyer named David Wills. Tomorrow is the dedication of the Gettysburg National Cemetery—well, right now it’s called the Soldiers National Cemetery—which is where Lincoln will give the Gettysburg Address. We should go to the Wills house first, to try and find out where Emma and my mother are.”

“Remind me again why we’re letting Flynn near Abraham Lincoln?” Rufus questioned sarcastically. “It didn’t exactly go well the last time.”

“Calm down, Rufus, I’m not going to shoot your beloved president,” Flynn scoffed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve already proven that I can do it,” he muttered under his breath.

“You know, Rufus has a point,” Lucy retorted, directing a pointed look toward Flynn. “That wasn’t our best interaction.” One hand unconsciously rubbed the side of her neck, remembering the ghostly feeling of Flynn’s fingers around her throat as she watched, aghast and helpless, as the man assassinated her historical idol.

Flynn returned her gaze steadily. “Lucy, you and I had not come to, ah, our _agreement_ yet when we met in Ford’s Theatre. I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable, but you know I had a job to do.”

Lucy sighed and turned to Wyatt’s worried gaze with a weak smile. She touched his arm gently, noticing how his body tensed and his eyes shot daggers at their most reluctant teammate with the memory of the times Flynn had kidnapped, shot at, or otherwise harmed Lucy at the beginning of their work with Mason Industries.

They knew now that Flynn’s ruthlessness before they were forced into a fragile alliance with the wanted terrorist was a response to Rittenhouse’s brutal murder of his wife and daughter, and they sympathized with his single-minded persistence to save his family, but even Lucy—with her superhuman selflessness—could not simply forget that she and her team had more than once been in mortal peril at the hands of Garcia Flynn and his henchmen. As long as they had known him, humility had never been one of Flynn’s strengths, but at least this half-hearted apology was a step toward developing trust and forgiveness between him and the rest of the team.

The open fields narrowed into broad dirt streets as dusk fell and they entered the town, but the aftermath of the devastating battle was still evident more than four months later. The Battle of Gettysburg had raged through the town and its surrounding fields during the days and nights of July 1-3, leaving in its wake more than 57,000 casualties, including almost 8,000 dead. It was the high-water mark of General Robert E. Lee’s Confederate army, whose troops were defeated by Major General George Meade’s Union forces in what is often considered the turning point of the Civil War. The stench of rotting corpses and dead horses had hung thickly over the streets until the first frost in October, forcing the town’s residents to vacate their homes or carry bottles of peppermint oil and pennyroyal to mask the scent when they walked through town.

“So what does Rittenhouse want here anyway?” Wyatt asked, directing his question to Lucy. “To assassinate Lincoln sooner so Flynn doesn’t get to have all the fun?”

“Maybe. That’s definitely a possibility. The Gettysburg Address itself is a pivotal moment in U.S. history. It’s one of the most famous speeches in the entire world. At the time, people didn’t think much of it, but you could say it’s one of the reasons the Union won the war. It’s why we remember the phrase, ‘government of the people, by the people, for the people.’”

“The Gettysburg Address won the Civil War?” Rufus sounded dubious.

“Well, not directly,” Lucy admitted. “But Lincoln never mentions the war or Gettysburg or slavery, even though he signed the Emancipation Proclamation less than a year ago. It’s all about democracy, sacrifice, patriotism, and equality. It redefines the war as a fight for freedom and for doing what’s right, not just North versus South.”

They had reached the square in the center of town and stopped to immerse themselves in the atmosphere, taking stock of the landscape around them. Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, home to just over 2,000 residents, was not intended to be the setting of a bloody battle. Ten roads converged on the small town, making it a hub for travel and trade, and a chance encounter had begun the skirmish earlier than expected. Both armies had intended to engage further away from the town, but instead cannons boomed and bullets flew directly through the streets of town and its surrounding fields, farms, and orchards.

“At least Rittenhouse decided to show up here _after_ the battle,” Flynn said, referring to Carol, Emma, and Nicholas, the masterminds and muscle behind the organization bent on reshaping history to their own narrative. “You think you’re safe in the North, and BAM!, the Confederacy shows up on your doorstep.”

“The residents that stayed in town hid in cellars or attics during the fighting, found themselves nursing the sick and injured, and were left to rebuild the town and bury the dead. Many Black families that lived here evacuated in June after receiving a warning from the state governor that the Confederates planned a raid into Pennsylvania; the Southern forces had a reputation for seizing both freed and freeborn people as war contraband,” Lucy mused.

She stopped on the corner and looked up at a tall brick house. “This is it. This is where David Wills and his family live.” It was the largest house on the town square, three stories of sturdy red brick rising above them, black shutters neatly framing the windows on the first floor.

It looked just like Lucy remembered. The summer Lucy was fourteen, Carol had brought her and Amy to the East Coast for a two-week vacation featuring the historic landmarks of Washington, D.C., Gettysburg, Philadelphia, and Boston. Carol had been doing research for one of her books, but to teenage Lucy, seeing the very crucibles that forged the nation was a dream come true. Even at fourteen, she knew that she intended to follow in her mother’s footsteps and study history. She loved learning about the people who had lived decades or even centuries ago, memorizing dates and locations, committing to memory the stories of their lives as if they were friends she could invite over for dinner. Her younger sister Amy was less enthusiastic about the dusty battlefields and endless historical plaques and had spent much of the vacation munching snacks and foregoing history in favor of the fantasy world of her handheld video game.

“And why was Lincoln crashing at this Will guy’s house?” Rufus asked.

“David _Wills_ is a prominent lawyer and was instrumental in creating the national cemetery here in Gettysburg,” Lucy explained. “Governor Andrew Curtin wanted a way to make amends with his constituents after the battle and get some votes going into the next election, so he appointed Wills to purchase land and make the arrangements for the cemetery on behalf of the state of Pennsylvania.”

As they watched, the front door swung open and a rectangle of light illuminated the darkening street. The deepening twilight cast enough shadows that their faces were shielded from view, but the light from inside the house clearly highlighted the figures on the doorstep. Two tall women in long dresses—one blond, one redheaded—and a short, rotund man carrying a shabby leather satchel were speaking earnestly to the lawyer in the arched doorway.

“Gotcha,” Flynn muttered as Emma, Carol, and the mystery man took their leave of the Wills house and swept down the street in a flurry of wide skirts, the stranger scurrying to keep up with his companions.

Lucy approached the house. “Excuse me, Mr. Wills?” she called out, as the rectangle of light receded.

David Wills pushed the door open again. “Who’s there?” he called into the darkness. Lucy practically ran to the doorstep, desperate to catch his attention before he disappeared into the house, and almost tripped over the swaths of fabric billowing around her legs. Wyatt automatically reached forward to pull her back to her feet, but Lucy found her balance and kept moving before he could touch her.

“My name is Lucy, and these are my traveling companions.” She gestured to the men behind her, unsure of how much Carol had told the man and whether she dared to use her last name. Lucy was not interested in revealing to the quick-witted attorney that she was Carol Preston’s daughter. “I was, well, _we_ were hoping to visit President Lincoln.”

“What are you doing?” Wyatt hissed in her ear. “You’re going to meet him in 1865, you can’t see him now.” Lucy ignored his admittedly rational argument (time travel, right?) and turned her attention back to David.

The attorney’s eyes narrowed. “Are you friends of Mr. Lincoln’s? What did you say your name was?”

“Lucy . . Logan,” she blurted without thinking. She thought she felt Wyatt tense behind her, and a warm flush spread up the back of her neck. “We, um, we’re not friends of his _exactly,_ ” she stammered, trying to regain her runaway train of thought.

Why had she called herself Lucy Logan? She had given out dozens of aliases across various decades, but somehow today _Logan_ was the only name that came to mind when she couldn’t use Preston. Wyatt was probably totally freaked out. They were barely dating, and she had just announced that they were married. Lucy didn’t have much experience with romantic relationships, but she knew enough to realize that pretending to be married after a couple of weeks would almost certainly spook the other person in the relationship—even if that other person hadn’t spent the last six years blaming himself for the death of his first wife. _Wife_ , Lucy corrected herself. After all, she wasn’t planning to marry Wyatt. She just . . wasn’t planning _not_ to marry him.

“We have important news from Washington for him,” Flynn interjected smoothly, stepping forward to address their host as he removed his hat and plastered a charming smile onto his face.

The attorney looked Flynn up and down slowly, assessing his above-average height, distinctive accent, and low-ranking uniform. In the tense silence, a child’s cry came from inside the house, followed by a woman’s voice shushing the baby.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can let you see him,” David decided, clearly suspicious of the four strangers at his doorstep. “He’s a very busy man, and of course he needs his privacy. I’m sure you understand.” The door inched shut.

“Wait!” It was Lucy, forcing herself to push aside her complicated thoughts about Wyatt and focus again on the mission. “Can you at least tell us about the two women who just left here? What did they tell you?”

The door cracked open to reveal David again. “I don’t believe it’s any of your concern, but they were nurses accompanying our family doctor. That’s all I can tell you. Good night, now.” The interview ended as the door closed firmly, the lock snicking into place with a note of finality.

The team stepped off the doorstep and gathered on the red brick sidewalk to the side of the house. People and horses crisscrossed the wide dirt square around them, hurrying home from errands or to dinner.

“Emma called herself a nurse while we were in St. Mihiel. She said she learned her skills while living in the 1880s. But why would she tell that to David Wills? Who was the doctor?” Lucy furrowed her brow, deep in thought as she flipped through her mental Rolodex of historical facts. The men stayed silent, knowing better than to interrupt Lucy when she was trying to remember historical minutiae.

“Smallpox!” she crowed triumphantly after a few minutes.

“Could you . . clarify that?” Wyatt asked politely. Rufus’s eyes widened with anxiety.

“Lincoln was diagnosed with smallpox soon after giving the speech. He’s suffering the beginning symptoms right now, just today on the train he would have told his private secretary John Hay that he’s feeling weak and dizzy.”

Flynn frowned. “The smallpox vaccine was introduced in 1796 by Edward Jenner. Or are you saying Rittenhouse stopped that, too?”

“There’s no historical evidence that Lincoln ever received the vaccination,” Lucy rebutted. “Soon he’ll have a high fever and his skin will blister; it will take three weeks for him to recover, and the virus can be deadly. If Emma convinces them that he’s too sick to speak, that he needs to be tended to right now instead of in a few days, the Gettysburg Address won’t be the Gettysburg Address.”

“So the doctor is the sleeper, then,” Wyatt said, piecing together Rittenhouse’s plan. “David Wills wouldn’t trust a couple of unknown nurses to examine the president, but he sure as hell would trust his own family’s doctor. Carol and Emma just needed him as a cover story to get into the house and deliver the diagnosis.”

With Rittenhouse’s plot sufficiently unraveled, Lucy turned back for one more look at the house. A second-floor window was brightly lit from inside, and Lucy’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped abruptly and reached back to alert her teammates, unable to form words. Her hand grazed Rufus’s arm, and the three men turned around to gaze up at the window with her. Abraham Lincoln was silhouetted in the frame, his distinctive profile bent over a desk on which he was furiously scribbling, finishing the final edits on his Gettysburg Address. 

“It’s too late to do anything else tonight,” Flynn said, breaking the spell of watching history come alive. “Unless you want to go off chasing your mother and Emma now?”

Lucy shook her head, feeling defeated. They were on the cusp of two of the greatest minutes in American history, and once again Rittenhouse was several steps ahead.

“Let’s find a place to spend the night,” Wyatt suggested. “We’ll feel better after some sleep, and we can get started again in the morning."

“Let me guess, there are a ton of people here for the dedication tomorrow, and we’ll probably have to sleep in a barn,” Rufus suggested.

That made Lucy smile a little. She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “Probably, but it’s worth a shot to try.”

The proprietor of the nearby guest house introduced himself as Joel Danner, and weren’t they lucky that he happened to have two rooms available, one for the lady and the other for the men.

Wyatt draped his arm casually around Lucy’s shoulders at the man’s words. “Actually,” he drawled, trying to hide his telltale smirk and clearly enjoying whatever he was about to say, “My _wife_ and I will stay together and our friends will take the other room.”

“My apologies, sir,” Joel Danner stammered, certainly trying to determine the relationship among two white Union soldiers, a wife, and a Black civilian man traveling together.

Lucy looked up at Wyatt gratefully, and their eyes met in mutual understanding. She shivered a little at the heat in his gaze, remembering how smoothly the name Lucy Logan had rolled off her tongue earlier that evening, as though it had just been waiting to be released. The way he was looking at her, the sound of his voice emphasizing the word 'wife' in reference to her, suggested that Wyatt was nowhere near as panicked about the idea as Lucy had worried.

Lucy and Wyatt had been spending most nights sharing a bed, but it felt different knowing that they weren’t in immediate danger of their bunker mates bursting in (the chair under the doorknob had become a necessity in the bunk rooms as well as the bathroom). Although they could still hear the sounds of the other guests around them—a hushed conversation, footfalls overhead, someone coughing—the room felt like an oasis, a secret hideaway just for them. Even knowing that they were responsible for saving history didn’t dampen Lucy’s enthusiasm as she stepped closer to Wyatt and tilted her face up for a kiss. 

It was slow and passionate, the embrace of lovers who are certain they have an open road ahead. Lucy tasted his mouth slowly, savoring the pressure of his lips and tongue against hers. 

He pulled away suddenly, breathing heavily. His eyes were dark with desire as he smirked at her, taking in her tousled hair and reddened lips, a pink blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Lucy Logan, huh?” Wyatt grinned at her, voice low and scratchy. “I liked the sound of that,” he confessed.

The blush under Lucy’s cheeks darkened. “Really?” she asked hopefully.

“Really,” he confirmed, threading his fingers into her dark hair and tilting her head back to nuzzle at her exposed throat.

“I was afraid I scared you,” Lucy said nervously. “Or that you would be mad. I don’t even know why I said it, I didn’t want David to know that Carol is my mother, and it just slipped out.”

Wyatt had been busy exploring the terrain of Lucy’s neck and jaw with his lips, but he stopped and leaned back so he could look her in the eye. “Why would I be angry?”

Lucy sighed and looked away. “Because . . Jessica was your wife. And we’re just, we’re not . .” she looked back at him desperately, willing him to understand what she couldn’t articulate.

He cupped her face between both of his hands. “Lucy Preston,” he whispered. “Don’t you know that I’m falling in love with you?”

The words made butterflies beat their wings against Lucy’s ribcage. Wyatt leaned his forehead against hers, steady and warm and reassuring. She felt the doubts fly away on their fragile butterfly wings.

“Show me,” she pleaded.

Wyatt’s hungry lips found hers again and again, pulling her closer and pressing himself tightly against her layers of skirts. Lucy’s hands came to his chest and fumbled with the buttons on his jacket, anxious to remove the barriers of fabric separating them. Wyatt released first one hand, then the other so Lucy could peel the jacket off his arms one at a time, never surrendering his hold on her. Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt next, and she slid her hand under the fabric against his smooth hot skin.  
  
Wyatt groaned against her mouth. “Why is this dress so _big_ ,” he growled, turning his attention to the tiny buttons on her dress.

He undid the buttons agonizingly slowly, brushing the pads of his fingertips across the tops of her breasts as the dress fell away. He peeled away the thin material of her undergarments like he was opening a present, and she let him gaze at every curve and dip and line of her body, enjoying his obvious appreciation. He worshiped her body with his lips and tongue and fingers, walking her backwards until they collided with the bed and collapsed onto the mattress together. Her hands came back to his shirt, pulling it out of his waistband and gliding across the tight muscles of his stomach, feeling them contract as he breathed in sharply. 

He pushed away her hands and stood up, leaving her alone on the bed as he removed the rest of his clothing, and Lucy brazenly stared at him through her lashes, enjoying the way his skin stretched and muscles rippled as he moved. Then he was above her again, kissing her mouth firmly before lowering his head to the cleft of her legs.

She writhed and whimpered as he found her most sensitive place. His mouth was wet and hot and so was she as he expertly nudged her to the edge again and again before bringing her to her release. Wyatt collapsed on his back beside her, laying his cheek against the pillow to look at her with a self-satisfied grin. Lucy took a deep, satiated breath and rolled onto her side to face him.

“What you said before . .” she began quietly. Unable to keep herself from touching him, she gently stroked the stubble along his jaw, tracing down his face to his shoulder and along his bicep. “Me too.”

Wyatt’s eyes brightened. “I know,” he replied, and he wrapped his arms around her so he could pull her on top of him, Lucy’s hair falling in a dark curtain around their faces as their lips met again, softly, like a promise. Then she was kissing him harder, urgently, tongue pushing into his mouth as her hand traveled downward between their bodies to wrap around him. She stroked him slowly, feeling him respond to her touch. Lucy pulled away and slipped down the bed to replace her hand with her mouth.

“ _Lucy_ ,” he moaned breathlessly, her name sounding at once like a blessing and a curse. She loved being the one who rendered Wyatt Logan speechless, who could make the tough Delta Force soldier forget about everything except the pleasure she was giving him. Then, when she fit him against her, inside her, she felt like she was coming home.

November 19, 1863 dawned cloudy and gray, a threatening chill of the impending winter hanging in the air. Rufus was sprawled on top of the covers of the bed, still clad in his stolen clothes, and he opened his eyes to find Flynn sitting in the hard armchair by the window, arms and legs crossed.

“Were you watching me _sleep_?” Rufus accused in a horrified tone, suddenly wide awake. “I know we work together now, but that crosses a line.”

“Hardly,” Flynn scoffed, standing and palming his hat off the top of the dresser. “More like twiddling my thumbs while you wasted daylight, Sleeping Beauty. Get up, we have to go.”

Rufus scrambled to his feet, thankful he didn’t need to do much to get ready except smooth his shirt and grab his shoes. “Where are we going? What about Lucy and Wyatt?” Rufus followed Flynn into the hall, letting the door to their room swing shut. “I swear, Flynn, if you’re planning something evil, I won’t do it, I–“

Flynn grabbed the other man’s arm roughly and shoved him against the wall. “Would you just shut up?” he hissed. “Lincoln is supposed to start the procession from the Wills house to the cemetery in less than an hour. If you want to make sure your precious Gettysburg Address happens the way you remember, we had better find a way to make that happen.”

Rufus rubbed his arm petulantly when Flynn released him but meekly followed him down the staircase. It was still difficult to believe that Flynn was on their side now and not desperately trying to double cross, abandon, or kill them, which he had done more than once when they disagreed over the methods by which they fought Rittenhouse.

The pilot had to jog a few steps to catch up with the tall man’s long strides as they exited onto the sidewalk. “So what’s your brilliant plan?”

“I don’t have one,” Flynn snapped. “We make it up as we go. Or,” he focused his gaze on a Black man polishing a pair of shoes on the back stoop of David Wills’s brick house. “We talk to him.”

“Hey, you!” Flynn barked, stepping close to the fence to address the stranger. He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties or early thirties, with short hair and a friendly face. “We need to speak to Mr. Lincoln immediately.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir,” the man replied politely. “The president is resting.”

Flynn’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What did the nurses tell him yesterday? It’s very important that you tell us.”

“I cannot discuss my employer with you, sir,” the man repeated, still polite but firm.

“What’s your name?” Rufus interrupted kindly. Flynn’s preferred method of interrogation was intimidation, but Rufus was partial to a more personal, persuasive conversation.

“William Johnson, the president’s valet,” William said, puffing his chest out proudly as he recited his name and station.

“William, I’m free like you,” Rufus explained, feeling a catch in his throat as he said the words, remembering Nicholas Biddle and the others—others caught up right now in this bloody and terrible war—who came before him to help pave his path to becoming a time machine pilot with a tech genius for a mentor and a degree from one of the most prestigious universities in the country.

“But William, I know that this speech Mr. Lincoln is supposed to give today, it’s an important one. It’s needed to win the war.”

“This speech? Mr. Lincoln was only invited two weeks ago to give a few appropriate remarks. It’s Edward Everett who’s the important speaker today.”

“Look,” Rufus insisted, leaning toward the valet with the urgency of his knowledge. “I know that the nurses were here last night because of the president. They told you that he’s very sick, didn’t they? That he’s contracted smallpox.”

William’s face turned from friendly to surprised. “How would you know that?” he asked suspiciously.

“I just do, it’s not important how. I can promise you that he will be okay, even if he gives the speech, and he _has_ to give the speech. It’s going to help win the war, it’s going to help make our lives and the lives of our families better. Not right now, but eventually, things will get better for us. But only if Mr. Lincoln goes to the cemetery this morning to make his address.”

William stared at him dubiously. “Rufus, I don’t know what you mean or how you know what you know, but if this little speech means as much as you say it does, then I guess Mr. Lincoln had better be the one to give it after all. He and I are quite close—he found me a position at the Treasury when I moved to Washington with the Lincolns, and I reckon I could convince him to make the speech.”

Rufus sighed heavily in relief. “Thank you, William, thank you. It means so much. Is there anything I can do for you, anything you need?” Although the promise of 'better' was still far away, and not yet fully realized even in 2018, Rufus was willing to change history just to improve the life of this man in any small way.

“No, sir. I’m doing just fine. You better get a move on before the rest of the family starts to wonder why I’m spending so much time talking to strangers and so little time polishing the president’s shoes.”

“Thank you for your help, William,” Flynn called over his shoulder as they turned away, towing Rufus by his shirtsleeve. “Now let’s get out of here before _we_ get smallpox, too,” he mumbled under his breath, only for Rufus to hear.

For a moment when she woke, Lucy forgot they were in the 19th century, in the aftermath of the bloodiest battle of the Civil War. Wyatt’s arms were wrapped securely around her, and she opened her eyes expecting to see the drab walls of the bunker and anticipating the smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen. Instead it was a small but cozy bedroom, outfitted with a bed, dresser, and wash basin—more primitive but certainly homier than the metal cots and low ceilings of the bunker. Before she could wake Wyatt, a loud rap and Rufus’s voice sounded at the door.

“Rise and shine, lovebirds! I know better than to open doors without knocking,” he grumbled, referring to the last time they had stayed overnight on a mission, when Rufus had gone searching for his teammates and walked in on them in bed together in Hedy Lamarr’s guest house.

Wyatt sighed at the intrusion and pressed his face against the back of Lucy’s neck, squeezing his arms tighter around her. “We’re coming, Rufus,” he mumbled, inhaling a mouthful of her hair at the same time.

“Okay, but the procession is starting soon, and while you two were spooning, Flynn and I have been up for hours saving history,” Rufus insisted. Wyatt snorted, face still hidden against Lucy. He could only imagine how much it must have irritated Rufus to be left alone with Flynn for more than a few minutes. Rufus tolerated Flynn better than Wyatt himself did, but nevertheless their relationship was barely more than tentative teamwork.

Lucy disentangled herself from Wyatt, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed and pulling along the colorful hand-stitched quilt to cover herself. “Rufus,” she called out in a voice as dignified as she could muster while naked, “thank you for your help. We’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

Wyatt reached forward to skim his fingertips along her bare back, and Lucy wanted nothing more than to tumble back into bed with him and continue where they had left off. But there was a time to be teammates and a time to be lovers, and the latter had ended when the sun rose.

When they reached the sitting room of the guest house, Rufus and Flynn were waiting for them impatiently. Rufus was hunched over in an armchair, elbows resting on his thighs and fingers steepled nervously, wondering if William Johnson had been able to convince the president to make his speech. Flynn paced in front of the fireplace, likely more impatient with Wyatt and Lucy’s tardiness than concerned about the outcome of history.

“It’s time to go,” Flynn announced when they entered the room. “Lincoln left the Wills house ten minutes ago.”

The tiny town’s population had swelled from 2,000 to almost 15,000 for the dedication of the Soldiers National Cemetery, with people traveling miles to see the main event of the day, the great orator Edward Everett. They joined the column of people migrating from the town square to the location of the new cemetery, following in the wake of the president. Their destination was less than a mile away, but there was a tangible, crackling energy in the air, like the town and tourists were preparing for a party. It probably was the closest thing to a party the townspeople had had in the grim months since the battle.

“You should have woken us up earlier,” Lucy admonished Rufus, falling into step with her friend. “I’m the historian, and I did absolutely nothing to help save the Gettysburg Address.”

“Nah, it was nothing,” Rufus replied. “Flynn and I had it under control. Plus I figured you two deserved a little alone time.” He smirked at Lucy slyly. Rufus had quickly noticed the chemistry between his two teammates, but it wasn’t until Wyatt was trying daily to break out of the bunker in the six weeks that Rittenhouse had kidnapped Lucy that he realized those sparks had ignited into flames. He was unabashedly pleased that his best friends had finally admitted their feelings for each other, and Jiya was likewise eager for the foursome to go on proper double dates, excitedly anticipating the day when they would defeat Rittenhouse and be able to return to normal civilian lives.

“Thanks, Rufus. It can be hard, trying to figure out a relationship while living together _and_ having four other roommates. But—he’s worth it. Last night was . . nice,” she smiled privately, her eyes softening at the memory.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Rufus cried. “I don’t need to know any more!”

“I wasn’t going to _tell_ you any more!” Lucy retorted quickly, horrified. Although Lucy and Rufus had developed a fast friendship while hurtling through time and space together, he was more like a sibling to her, and she wasn’t interested in discussing her sex life with her brother. “Let’s change the subject. Flynn said Lincoln left the Wills house at the start of the procession, just like he was supposed to. That’s a good sign. How did you convince him to give the speech?”

“Well, I didn’t. And I’m not one hundred percent sure that he’s going to,” Rufus admitted slowly.

“What?” she gasped.

“We talked to Lincoln’s valet, William . . he still wouldn’t let us talk to the president ourselves, but I convinced him that it was important that Lincoln shows up and speaks today. He said he’d talk to him.”

Lucy chewed on her lower lip apprehensively. “You’re right, William and Lincoln were unusually close for a powerful white man and his servant. Lincoln trusted William deeply, and he’ll even pay for William’s funeral costs out of his own pocket.”

Rufus looked startled. “William’s going to die soon? I mean, if Lincoln will be killed in two years and he paid for William’s funeral, that means . .” his voice trailed off sadly, coming to the grim conclusion.

Lucy nodded. “He’s going to contract smallpox soon too, just like Lincoln. Only he won’t be as lucky. He’s going to die in January.”

She could feel the excitement drain out of Rufus. Even though William had died long before either of them were born, even though his death would come of natural causes, the knowledge that they brought with them from the future always came tinged with heartache.

While Lucy and Rufus swapped stories, Wyatt and Flynn walked stiffly beside each other. The reluctant truce that Agent Christopher had forced on them was almost a physical barrier between them without Lucy and Rufus to provide a buffer. Wyatt gave a friendly nod to the soldier on his other side, pointedly ignoring Flynn, who was moodily—and silently—stewing in his own thoughts.

“Wyatt Logan,” he said, grasping the younger man’s hand in a firm handshake. “What brings you to Gettysburg today?”

“Nathaniel Stevens,” the young man introduced himself. “I attend Pennsylvania College here. Spent the summer in the local militia though, saw some of the action north of town.”

Wyatt nodded, impressed. “A college boy and a soldier. Snuck out of class to see the president, huh?” he grinned conspiratorially. They had reached the top of a small hill and began to descend the other side.

Nathaniel smirked back, two men from different centuries who had each once been mischievous boys enjoying a prank or two. “Classes were canceled today so we could all attend the dedication. Our college president is giving the benediction at the end of the ceremony.”

Wyatt—always eager for the opportunity to discuss military maneuvers and battle plans—was about to press the young soldier for more details but was distracted by a man in front of Lucy shouting toward a house on the left side of the road. Instinctively the soldier reacted to the disturbance, scanning the crowd for danger and automatically reaching a hand toward his weapon, but the rabble rouser was only calling to a friend. “John! John Winebrenner!” he yelled, waving at the house. The person he was referring to, standing on the second-floor balcony, waved back heartily.

“Excuse me,” Lucy tapped the man on the shoulder. “Who is John Winebrenner?”

“He’s the tanner, miss,” came the reply.

The niggling sense of familiarity in Lucy’s mind at hearing the tanner’s name suddenly became a memory. She threaded her way through the crowd to the edge of the procession, her sights set on John Winebrenner’s house.

“Lucy!” Wyatt called out behind her, but when she glanced back, he was already elbowing his way through the crowd to catch up to her.

“What is it, Lucy?” Flynn pressed. He huffed out an annoyed breath. “We’re almost to the cemetery, do you really need to take a break?”

“It’s this tree,” Lucy breathed, ignoring the sarcastic commentary and placing her palm on the bark of a tall sycamore tree.

“We stopped to look at a tree?” Rufus asked. “Is it a famous tree?”

“Yes, actually it is,” Lucy replied. “It’s known as—or will be—known as a witness tree, one of the trees that witnessed the Civil War and the Gettysburg Address and are still standing more than one hundred years later. My mother brought me to this tree when I was younger.”

Lucy and Amy were clutching melting ice cream cones when Carol made them stand under the sycamore and lay their sticky hands on the thick trunk. The spreading branches and wide leaves cast shifting patterns of dappled sunlight across the sisters’ faces. “Abraham Lincoln walked underneath this tree,” Carol explained to her daughters, “and now you have, too.”

“There are others, too,” Lucy murmured, practically to herself. “Here in town, but also on the battlefield. There are still bullets in them, they just grew around the wounds and healed themselves.”

Wyatt wrapped an arm around Lucy’s shoulder, tugging her close so she could lean her cheek against his scratchy wool coat. “They became stronger for it,” he murmured in her ear. “They overcame and they grew and they’ve _lived_ for more than a century.” He was talking about the trees, but he meant the heartbreak they had both suffered and the solace and strength they found in each other.

Rufus and Flynn kept a respectful distance as the two shared their moment together, Lucy grieving her childhood and her lost mother, Wyatt providing the comfort that she needed to keep the darkness at bay. When she had regained her composure, they all returned to the procession and finished the walk to the cemetery.

Lucy fell back into her familiar professor persona as they entered the newly birthed cemetery. “The Gettysburg National Cemetery holds the remains of more than 3,500 Civil War soldiers, but as of now, fewer than half of the bodies have been reinterred.”

Rufus wrinkled his nose. “That sounds like an episode of _Dirty Jobs_.”

Lucy laughed in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “It definitely could be. The soldiers were buried all over, on the battlefields, in church graveyards, or at field hospitals. The lucky ones got a shallow grave just for them—the unlucky were piled into mass graves. Remember, there were almost four times as many dead as there were residents.”

“But it’s been _four months_ ,” squeamish Rufus insisted logically, thinking of the toll all those days in the summer heat would have taken on the bodies.

“A merchant named Samuel Weaver was hired to oversee the reinterments, and he’s at the exhumation of every soldier. Weaver tries to identify the bodies through their uniform or personal effects because only Union troops are supposed to be buried here. He had a free Black man, Basil Biggs, leading his work crew, and it takes them from October to March to move all of the bodies to the new graves. Eventually the Confederate bodies will be exhumed as well and shipped to their home states.”

They followed the press of people into the cemetery, where the crowd was already gathering tightly around the speakers platform, anticipating the events of the day. In 1863, listening to sermons and orations was a popular form of entertainment, and David Wills had planned the program for maximum enjoyment. There was music by two bands and a prayer before Edward Everett took the stage. The sun had come out from behind the clouds by the time the famous orator began the main address of the day.

“Rufus, can you find William? Find out if the president is going to speak,” Lucy directed. Rufus elbowed his way through the crowd toward the speakers platform. The crowd grew closer and thicker as he approached, but even in Pennsylvania in 1863, a Black man was able to slip through crowds without being paid much attention.

There he was—Abraham Lincoln—sitting in a chair to the side of the platform, listening intently to Everett. Rufus stopped for a moment to stare. Although he wasn’t as much of a history enthusiast as Lucy, he could still appreciate the fact that he was mere feet from one of the most venerated presidents in American history. Lucy was the only one who had met Lincoln on their second mission, when Flynn had stepped in to take over John Wilkes Booth’s assassination attempt.

In fact, it was incredible that he could _be_ within mere feet of one of the most venerated presidents in American history, with no bodyguards or advisers to impede his progress, Rufus thought. A bit more security could have done Lincoln some good, particularly considering the future that was waiting for him in Ford’s Theatre in two years’ time. But Lincoln would not sign the Secret Service into law until 1865, and even then, their primary duty was to prevent money counterfeiting, not to protect the president’s life.

William Johnson was standing a short distance behind the president’s chair. Rufus sidled up beside him. “Hey, William,” he whispered. “Is he going to give the speech? Is it happening?”

William jumped a little, startled, then turned to his new friend with a wide smile. “It sure is. President Lincoln takes his duties very seriously.”

Rufus clapped him on the back. “Thanks, my man. Keep him safe, okay?” And he slipped away again through the crowd.

“How long is this guy gonna talk?” Wyatt grumbled in Lucy’s ear as Rufus rejoined them. Even the breeze of his breath against her ear couldn’t distract Lucy from her unadulterated joy in witnessing firsthand one of the most significant days in American history.

“It’ll be a while still,” she replied absentmindedly, keeping her attention focused on the speaker on the platform. “Edward Everett—he’s a politician—is one of the most famous orators of the time. He’s the main attraction for today’s ceremony, not Abraham Lincoln. His speech lasts more than two hours, but of course it’s the two-minute Gettysburg Address that is the one history remembers.”

“Not for long,” a voice interrupted. Lucy spun, seeing out of the corner of her eye that Wyatt and Flynn reached for their guns simultaneously, like synchronized wind-up toys.

“He’s going to give the speech,” Lucy spat to the two Rittenhouse agents who had suddenly materialized at the cemetery. “He’s here, and he’s going to speak.”

Carol gazed wistfully at her daughter, letting Emma take the lead on playing villain for the day. “You think he’s going to do it just because you asked nicely? Figured you’d try to get in the way again, so of course we had a contingency plan.”

“Contingency plan?” That was Rufus. He sounded nervous. “What did you do?”

A shout went up behind them, and Lucy jerked her head around again to look at the speakers platform again. Lincoln was suddenly obscured from view by a huddle of people crowding around the president. Edward Everett’s speech faltered at the distraction and then resumed.

“What did you do?” Lucy echoed breathlessly, returning her attention to her redheaded rival.

“We happened to leave some medicine with him last night, you know, because of the smallpox,” Emma smirked. “Just a little something to speed along the symptoms,” she explained. “It was quite easy once we activated the sleeper agent. David Wills was willing to listen to anything that quack of a doctor told him.”

“You _poisoned_ the president?” Rufus said, aghast. After months spent chasing Rittenhouse through the past, he shouldn’t be surprised at the nefarious means by which Rittenhouse attempted to change history, but the extent of their determination was still alarming. “So you do want to kill him sooner.”

“I heard that your new friend Flynn here already took care of that for us,” Emma said snarkily, jabbing a finger toward Flynn accusingly.

“Not kill,” Carol interjected, as though murdering the president crossed a line that poisoning did not. “He’ll recover. He just won’t be able to speak today.”

“Why?” Lucy whispered, distraught, staring at her mother hopelessly. “Why? You love history, you love Lincoln, just like me. Why are you trying to destroy it?”

“We’re not trying to _destroy_ history, Lucy. We’re trying to _improve_ it. Which you would understand if you would _come with us_ and come home to Rittenhouse. I can teach you everything, just like before.” She smiled encouragingly at her daughter. “Do you remember the trip when we came here? When you were fourteen?”

Lucy nodded wordlessly. Wyatt shifted restlessly on his feet, and Lucy could feel fury and impatience radiating from him in waves. Wyatt Logan was a man of action, a man with little patience for playacting, and Carol’s incessant game of cat and mouse with her daughter made his protective hackles rise. Finally, Everett wrapped up his remarks, and another hymn was begun.

“That was a good trip, don’t you remember? We were happy then, we were a family.”

“You brought me here because you were feeling nostalgic?” Lucy accused, her voice growing cold.

“Rittenhouse is your destiny, Lucy. Your _family_. Give up this silly fight, and we can give you the world.”

“No. No, I’ll never join Rittenhouse. It’s not my family and neither are you, because families don’t lie to each other,” Lucy spat vehemently. The music faded away into the breeze, and then Abraham Lincoln was being introduced.

He looked weak, swaying slightly on his feet, face pale and drawn. He paused for a moment to cough, but he was there, standing to his full height of 6'4", ready to speak the words that would become synonymous with his legacy.

The group stared incredulously at the president as he began to speak, mouths open for different reasons. The Mason Industries operatives were thankful that he was speaking; the Rittenhouse ringleaders were furious that their plan had been foiled. Lucy strained her ears to make out every tiny inflection in the man’s voice, which was thin and high but still carried well over the field.

“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

Lucy shivered, the immortal words creeping down her spine and soaking into her skin, her arms breaking into goosebumps. He paused again to cough, and someone reached out to place a hand on his arm to steady him. Lucy held her breath, wondering if he would be able to continue.

“Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.”

Wyatt’s hand gripped Lucy’s shoulder firmly, anchoring himself to her, and she reached out to hold Rufus’s hand, his palm sliding smoothly against hers. A tear slid down her cheek, filled with awe at hearing her idol give his most famous speech and mourning that simultaneously 153 years ago and two years in the future she will watch Flynn assassinate the legendary leader in a theater less than one hundred miles away, his still-warm blood splattering her face and staining her dress.

“But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.”

Even Flynn let out a small, wistful sigh, swept away in the poetry of the famous words. The ex-NSA operative didn’t often express his emotions but listening to the eloquent words of the nation’s sixteenth president seemed to be an exception to his cold demeanor and sarcastic armor. Lincoln was obviously weak, but he was pushing through the discomfort caused by the poison to honor his promise to his valet and friend William.

“It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

The crowd rippled with murmurs and applause. Many spectators were just realizing that the president had not only begun speaking but already finished, while the four time travelers stood completely still and completely silent as the words died away on the breeze. Lucy was struck by how important those words were her, to them, even worlds away in the 21st century. She suddenly remembered that Emma and Carol were there too, but when she turned around, the Rittenhouse women had snuck away and disappeared.

Lincoln fairly fell off the platform, the exertion of speaking having left him exhausted and ill. Another hymn and another prayer passed before the ceremony ended. Finally, Wyatt squeezed Lucy’s shoulder again, his hand lingering along the back of her neck. “Well, he did it,” he said quietly. He turned to Rufus and Flynn and nodded in acknowledgement. “You did it. The Gettysburg Address is safe, and it will help the Union win the war.”

Lucy smiled up at him gratefully, thankful to have him by her side as teammate and friend and lover. There were still two years left in the war, and innumerable days and weeks and months of suffering ahead. Just as the Gettysburg residents of 1863 didn’t know when or if the end of the war would come, Lucy didn’t know how she could stop Rittenhouse and save her sister. But Lincoln had given something to the people gathered together in the cemetery, and Lucy would take some of it back with her to 2018. _Hope_. She let her eyes wander over the faces of her other teammates, taking in Rufus’s dark, emotion-filled eyes and Flynn’s usual impenetrable, but somehow softer, expression.

“We have our own unfinished business waiting in 2018. This might slow down Rittenhouse, but it certainly hasn’t stopped them. We still have to take down my mother and Emma. Let’s go home.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite historical fun facts is that David Wills really did write a letter to President Lincoln two weeks before the cemetery dedication inviting him to give "a few appropriate remarks." It's such a casual beginning to such a famous speech. I gave the phrase to William Johnson here just to fit it into the story. Otherwise, I tried to be as historically accurate as possible.


End file.
